A man did not acknowledge another man’s tears. Clancy and Tavy carefully did not notice them either. Nor their own.

‘Promise?’ There was no breath behind the word, for she had none to give.

‘I promise. We will call our first daughter after you.’

She did not seem to hear him, focusing on drawing breath. For the first time her look of happiness turned to distress. She turned to Ethelred, gasping, trying frantically for the strength to keep grasping his hands. Tavy reached into his doctor’s bag and brought out a needle. ‘Morphia,’ he said shortly, then managed to smile at Maria. ‘Just to take away the pain.’

Her look said she knew exactly what the flower of the opium poppy gave and that it was not always just relief from pain. She panted, small dog pants, as the needle went in, Ethelred’s hands still holding hers, his gaze never leaving her, her eyes on his until they slowly shut, then gradually the breaths grew shallower. And then they ceased.

‘You killed her,’ said Clancy, aghast.

‘I did,’ said Dr MacTavish. ‘Have you ever seen someone die of suffocation, man? It is the worst death in the world, for the body will not give up, no matter how little breath it gets. Sometimes they fight for days.’

‘But she said . . . she said that you said that there’d be no pain. That it would be fast . . .’ Clancy realised as he said the words that was exactly what her death had been.

Dr MacTavish had murdered his sister, while her husband and her brother had looked on. Her husband had undoubtedly known exactly what would happen, just as Maria had known. MacTavish could hang for this.

But would not. For Clancy would not tell and nor would Ethelred. And Tavy was unlikely to confess what he had done on this hill for a woman who had been dealt such hard cards by life.

‘Leave us awhile,’ said Ethelred, his voice almost steady as he sat, cradling Maria’s head in his lap and stroking her hair.

Clancy followed Tavy inside. One of the maids sobbed into her apron. She fled into the kitchen as they approached. He heard wailing, two voices, or three.

His sister had been loved.

He looked back. Ethelred had removed her mask, was stroking the deformed forehead, the place where her nose had been, was kissing her gently, softly, her forehead then her lips. He clasped her to him then and simply cried.

They buried her in the garden of native plants the day after next, after a church service in the town half a day’s ride distant. Dr MacTavish signed the death certificate. Tavy was staying for a while, it seemed. Clancy was glad. Ethelred should not be alone, just with the servants, but he must keep his promise. Wanted above all things to keep his promise.

‘You’ll bring Rose here?’ demanded Ethelred, a whiskey in his hand.